


what your skin would look like on me

by honeyno



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Implied Drug Use, M/M, devastating narcissism, imagery alluding to suicidal tendencies (but metaphorically), mirror kink?, sharon's ego - freeform, vague references to jeffree star
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-06 03:32:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16380578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyno/pseuds/honeyno
Summary: “Is it fucked up that I kind of find this hot?”Sharon floats the question into the dressing room distractedly as she watches Alaska put the headpiece over her wig. Short answer, yes. Definitely fucked up.One: Alaska’s dressed as her, and two: it’s Alaska.





	what your skin would look like on me

**Author's Note:**

> oh wow, i really decided to post this here a YEAR after it went up on AQ, huh? 'tis the season to be ooky spooky again, tho, folks so enjoy my halloween spooktacular once again
> 
> inspired by that one time alaska dressed as sharon and sharon dressed as jeffree star at hell on heels last year. let's hope something even worse happens this year so i can one-up myself.
> 
> (this is the halloween tour fic from hell that no one asked for; drag names and she/her pronouns for both throughout. title is from sharon's piano wire.)

“Is it fucked up that I kind of find this hot?”

Sharon floats the question into the dressing room distractedly as she watches Alaska put the headpiece over her wig. Short answer, yes. Definitely fucked up.

One: Alaska’s dressed as her, and two: it’s  _Alaska_.

There’s a silence which probably isn’t as long as it feels to Sharon but what matters is, Alaska doesn’t answer at all - she pretends not to hear, doesn’t even blink at the remark and Sharon feels uncomfortable surrounded by the air of a failed joke.

“You sound like the kind of person who jerks off looking in the mirror,” Trixie interjects, catching her eyes in the makeup mirror which lines the wall to raise her eyebrows suggestively.

“She does,” Alaska nods, because she is listening — of course she is listening— and she’s too damn quick to resist adding to Trixie’s remark. “It’s  _disgusting_.”

“You didn’t mind watching,” Sharon fires back, and the dressing room erupts in a cacophony of “ _Ooooh_ ”s and laughter, because they’ve been doing this long enough for those exchanges to be okay most of the time, and really, everyone around them is used to it by now.

Alaska just rolls her eyes at her and tells her to fuck off before bending down to take one last look at herself in the mirror. She purses her lips, tilts her chin a little to the side, and then throws her head back as she cackles. It’s uncanny.

The rest of the performers in the room, again, respond with laughter and shouts of approval — Courtney is, quite literally, scream-laughing while Trixie puts a brush down to reward the cackle with an honest-to-god finger snap applause.

Sharon’s skin is crawling.

She finishes her beer and puts the can down decisively, swearing at no one in particular as she heads out of the dressing room and off to perform.

***

The show lasts long and goes well, and Sharon loses track of however many beer cans the nice PA — or maybe he’s a bar staff, she doesn’t quite care to know — keeps handing her in between numbers.

She kills, and Alaska kills. The crowd thinks her costume is funny. They think Alaska’s is genius and they eat it up.

Sharon’s proud of Alaska, and also proud of herself, of the FaceTime call a few weeks ago where she’d joked “You should dress up as me, that’s fucking spooky” and Alaska had cackled and her face had lit up, so when she rambled on and demanded that Sharon pack that look, she’d relented and agreed.

And now, the result is worth the whole thing, worth that sense of pride mixed with the slightest tinge of jealousy that courses through Sharon’s body as she tugs her truly hideous magenta wig off and stares at herself in the mirror. She wishes for her own sake that she’d forgotten how it feels but it’s familiar like opening a box of knick-knacks you haven’t looked at in years: it’s cluttered and messy, full of things that will probably conjure up something she doesn’t want to address, and she digs her fingers in and starts going through it anyway.

She’s stripped down to her undergarments when the door opens and Alaska walks in, her eyes taking in the entire room before landing on Sharon.

“Where’s everyone?”

“Half of them are out already,” Sharon shrugs. “I guess some are still meeting people, whatever. Smiling for selfies.”

“You’re taking your sweet time,” Alaska teases and Sharon whips around to mock-glare at her, head cocked to the side as she points out that Alaska’s still fully dressed, in her own dress and her black and white hair and—

She’s magnetic. It’s stupid how hard it is to look away. Alaska’s just standing there in the dim light of the bulbs that surround the mirror, and it’s late, the tail end of a long night, and she still looks flawless. Looks ready to step out and do another show if she had to.

It might be whatever cocktail of substances Sharon has subjected herself to already but her fingers actually itch and she drags a fingernail across the pad of her thumb as she shakes her head.

“Fuck off and give my dress back, bitch.”

Alaska laughs, then goes completely deadpan as she adds,

“Been a while since you’ve talked dirty to me.”

 _That_ — that’s pushing it. They’ve worked very hard to be where they are, where they talk and text and wear each other’s clothes and Sharon’s years old bullshit about  _gaining a best friend_ is finally starting to sound real to her own ears. This, though, the weird post-show intimacy of the cramped dressing room, the tightness in Sharon’s skin, the way Alaska’s lips twitch just halfway to a smirk because she  _knows_ she’s toeing the line… it’s too much and they’re far away enough from home that Sharon’s becoming increasingly more aware that she’s entirely too close to a whole selection of bad choices.

“Not about to start now, either,” she shrugs instead, and Alaska’s laughing again and maybe they can avoid flinging themselves off the ledge for one more night.

Sharon shakes her head and turns back to face the mirror and the growing pile of garments on the back of her chair as she arches her back and twists her arms back to reach the ties of her corset. She pushes her fingers between the ties and wriggles them apart but it only does the job halfway.

“Can I help you?”

Alaska’s inflection kind of implies that she might’ve been going for a jokingly biting tone but what comes out instead is just a quiet, almost measured question.

“Yeah—yeah. That’d be nice,” Sharon nods because she doesn’t have a choice, hasn’t really  _had_ a choice since Alaska stepped into the room.

The music from the venue is filtering in all low, ceaseless bass and Sharon feels its pulse inside her skull, between her ribs, at the sliver of skin Alaska’s fingertips graze as she works her corset loose with a swift, practiced ease.

“You know, I wasn’t joking,” Sharon starts, aiming for casual and missing by a lightyear.

“Hmm?”

“When I said you look hot tonight. I wasn’t joking.”

Alaska’s nail catches on the ribbon as she tugs on it one more time, and Sharon follows her words with a shaky inhale, deeper than she’s been able to afford all night.

“I know you weren’t.”

Alaska taps her side to signal that she’s done with the ties. Her hand is still there when she adds, very quietly,

“I  _do_  think it’s kind of fucked up.”

Sharon looks up to stare at the mirror. Behind her, Alaska catches her eyes in the reflection and  _holds_  her gaze, white lenses under heavy lashes and completely fucking intoxicating.

This really is the ledge. This is taking the elevator up to the top of the skyscraper, fully ready for your date with the pavement below. It’s staring at the inside of a plastic bag as it fogs up.

“You don’t want me to turn around right now,” Sharon manages. She watches Alaska’s mirror image as she bites her black lip, swallows, shakes her head.

“I think I do.”

Sharon only catches half of her nod in the mirror because then she’s whipping around, her hands come to rest at the hollows of Alaska’s cheeks, and then she’s kissing her. Alaska gasps into it; a soft, startled sound but then one of her hands travels to the small of Sharon’s back, tugging her closer as she allows herself to kiss back.

Sharon imagines Alaska’s fingertips leaving crater-like holes where they press against her, like the aftermath of a meteor crash — that’s exactly what her touch feels like and it makes Sharon want to crawl out of her skin. She groans and kisses her again, growing more possessive now as she licks into Alaska’s mouth, runs her tongue over the black paint on her teeth. It tastes like biting down rubber, bitter and burnt and nauseating.

Alaska whimpers at that and then she’s pulling back and Sharon’s entire body is buzzing with want and a dull panic which swells up in her chest as Alaska steps away.

“Fuck,” she starts, and her voice comes out low and airy. “Listen—“

“Shut up.”

Alaska makes for the door and Sharon doesn’t stop her.

“Just— don’t let me question this,” Alaska adds, and Sharon stares at her as her mind takes a second to catch up.

Alaska reaches for the door and doesn’t leave. Instead, she turns the key in the lock and then strides back, the determined rhythm of her pumps echoing between the walls of the suffocatingly cramped, hot room. The second she’s within touching distance, Sharon’s hands dart to her ass and squeezes the padding, pulling her in as her lips go straight for Alaska’s neck.

Sharon’s untucked and wearing briefs under her loosened corset, and her pantyhose has been off for a while, so when Alaska drops a helpless hand down and reaches blindly for her, it’s skin on skin, fingernails ghosting up her leg. Sharon curses under her breath and grips Alaska’s hip, backing her up against the makeup counter as she forces a leg between Alaska’s thighs. Alaska responds with a sharp sound, hands dropping back to the counter to support her as she rolls her hips into the pressure of Sharon’s thigh.

Alaska gets overwhelmed so easily, turns needy and pliable, and Sharon’s head’s spinning as she  _remembers_ that, as it comes rushing back to her while she traces hot, open-mouthed kisses along Alaska’s jaw, leaving a trail of pink lipstick in her wake.

Her nails catch on every single crosshatch of Alaska’s fishnets as she scratches up her leg, traces her hand all the way up the slit in her dress. Alaska shifts like she’s about to protest but then Sharon digs her nails into the nylon and it rips under the pressure, so it’s too late for protest.

“That’s two pairs of dance tights,” Alaska whispers in a half-whine, and Sharon lets out a cool laugh and bites her bottom lip to shut her up. Alaska gasps and ruts against her leg again.  She’s wearing too many layers and Sharon wants all of them off, now.

She steals one more kiss, deep and filthy, all tongue and teeth and no grace at all, and then draws back, smirking as Alaska whimpers at the sudden lack of contact. 

“Turn around,” Sharon says, quietly, and it’s not a suggestion.

Alaska swivels in the tight space between Sharon’s body and the counter, bracing her hands down again as she looks up to catch Sharon’s eyes in the mirror. That’s a dare. Her eyes are narrowed and her mouth — outlined grotesquely in smeared black lipstick — is slack and barely curved in a smirk. Sharon retains her gaze, accepts the challenge and raises its stakes, her eyes fixed steadily on Alaska’s reflection as she grips her shoulder and presses down until Alaska budges, elbows dropping to the counter.

Alaska’s eyes flutter shut when Sharon pushes the dress up until it bunches up against the belt at her cinched waist. Sharon tugs her ruined tights down to her knees, pulls the padding away and tosses it aside, and then Alaska’s hers to touch in nothing but a hastily cut piece of tape.

“Look at me.“

Alaska forces her eyes to open again immediately, stares at her wide-eyed, with the slightest crease of tension furrowing her brow. Sharon keeps her eyes on the reflection as she pulls the tape off, watches as Alaska winces and drags in a sharp breath through her teeth at the release.

For just one excruciatingly long second, Sharon draws back, keeps her hands off Alaska and lets her breathe. Alaska looks relieved, almost, but that’s brief and then she makes a low, impatient sound and rolls her hips back, pressing her bare ass against Sharon’s cock.

The one layer of cotton between them is thin enough that it almost doesn’t matter and the contact draws a staggered noise out of Sharon. Alaska moves again, just a slight twitch of her hips, but it’s an invitation with a quickly approaching expiration date and Sharon doesn’t have the patience to tease anymore.

She shoves her briefs down and reaches around to wrap long, manicured fingers around Alaska’s cock right as she slides her own against the crease of her ass. Sharon  _wants_ , so badly, to bury herself deep inside of her, to fuck a whole collection of helpless sounds out of her, to  _feel_  Alaska fall apart tight and shaky around her.

Reaching down, Sharon braces the palm of her free hand flat against Alaska’s chest and pulls her up, moving her hair aside to kiss the back of her neck as she whispers the fantasy in her ear, voice low and strained as her hips and the hand around Alaska’s cock find a sharp, punishing rhythm to move in.

Alaska smells like sweat and setting spray and the damp sponge she uses to put her face on. There are stray wavy white hairs that stick to Sharon’s lips as she kisses her way down her neck, leaving at least one mark she probably shouldn’t behind. Alaska’s skin is burning up and she’s gone quiet — she barely remembers to breathe as she fucks into Sharon’s fist, her arms straining where she’s braced them onto the counter to hold herself mostly upright.

Sharon moves her free hand down Alaska’s arm, groans quietly as she traces the strained muscle under her polyester sleeve. Her hand drops to Alaska’s wrist and Alaska shudders when she encircles it, drags her metallic thumbnail across its inside.

“Can’t—“ Alaska starts, and her hips stutter so she groans and thrusts an irregular pattern, desperately playing catch up with Sharon’s steady rhythm. “ _Won’t_ last much longer.”

“Don’t.”

Her thumb brushes over the slick head of Alaska’s cock and on the next stroke, she twists her wrist in a new way and Alaska’s gone. She chokes out a noise like she’s been punched in the gut, and her arms give, and she’s whimpering high and breathless as she spills into Sharon’s closed fist.

Sharon holds her in place with a palm pressed to her sternum and then wipes her hand on Alaska’s dress because technically it’s her dress, and it doesn’t matter.

“Fuck,” Alaska whispers, a long, suffocating moment later, when she can breathe again and she’s she’s only shaking a little in Sharon’s grasp.

“Yeah. Fuck,” she agrees, and her hips twitch against Alaska who winces at the renewed contact, hypersensitive and so fucking overwhelmed in her afterglow. “Face me.”

It’s barely a question but Sharon watches Alaska’s face in the mirror as she weighs it for herself, sets her jaw in something like determination and turns around. Up close, her foundation is streaked with sweat, completely rubbed off along the line of her lacefront, and there’s a smudge of black lipstick down her chin.

She’s stunning in a gross, fucked out sort of way, and Sharon’s still so fucking hard, and she wants so fucking much, and she telegraphs that with a sharp roll of her hips as she stares right into Alaska’s white-out eyes under her heavy, sated eyelids. Alaska almost flinches away from her gaze,  _almost_ , but then she resolves to stare back as she drops a hand down and grips Sharon’s cock in the tight space between their bodies.

Sharon gasps and curses at her and then lets a string of filthy encouragements get lost in Alaska’s mouth as she claims her lips in a rough kiss. Alaska kisses back messily, deeply, without any finesse, and Sharon can barely breathe, can barely take it. She breaks the kiss and reaches to wipe lipstick and spit from Alaska’s bottom lip. Alaska grazes her thumb with her teeth and licks at it and Sharon thinks this might be where she short-circuits and dies. It must show on her face because Alaska pulls back just enough to speak, lips still catching at Sharon’s fingers as she whispers,

“Fuck, let me— can I  _please_ —“

She can’t get the words out but Sharon knows and the answer is yes, and then her nails are digging into Alaska’s shoulders as she brings her to her knees.

Alaska makes a noise that’s somehow both broken and appreciative and presses a kiss where the waistband of Sharon’s hastily pulled down briefs presses into her skin. Sharon shifts to lean against the counter and Alaska follows, settles on her knees in front of her and kisses up her thigh, biting at the juncture of her pelvis before reaching up to pull Sharon’s long forgotten corset the rest of the way off.

She traces excruciatingly light fingertips over the deep imprints of the boning at the bottom of Sharon’s ribs, down her stomach, all reverent, electric touch and Sharon can’t stand it.

“ _Now_ , Alaska.”

Alaska drags in a breath at the command, then digs her nails into the backs of Sharon’s thighs and sucks her cock all the way into her mouth with so little warning that it feels like  _payback_.

Above her, Sharon swears again, her fingers catching on Alaska’s wig as she curls them around the back of her neck. Alaska hums under the touch and the low sound sends a jolt through Sharon’s entire body, explodes in the back of her skull and the coiling pit of her stomach. She forces herself to look down, stares glassy eyed at the curve of Alaska’s bare ass, her cinched waist, the top of her two-tone hair moving rhythmically as she works her way around Sharon’s cock. It’s twisted like waking up to damp sheets from a wet dream that could have actually been a nightmare.

Sharon feels too hot in her skin, the spots Alaska has touched and those she hasn’t but Sharon wishes she would burning up alike — white hot and bruise-like. Alaska’s moved one hand to her balls, is pressing the heel of her palm just slightly, when Sharon grips the back of her neck and holds her there, holds her still, and thrusts just once — sharp and short — and she’s coming down Alaska’s throat.

Sharon’s world is all static and Alaska’s mouth through the aftershocks. When Alaska pulls back, she expects her to get up immediately but instead, she runs her teeth down the front of her thigh again, bites down a mark that Sharon shouldn’t be happy to receive.

She doesn’t open her eyes until she hears Alaska’s pumps on the floor and when she does, Alaska’s at the makeup station beside hers, wig and dress off, languid in a post-sex kind of way as she takes the contacts out. The rest of her makeup is still smeared all over her face, and Sharon finds herself memorizing the creases in her foundation and the black spots of mascara on her cheekbones.

“You look disgusting.”

Her own voice startles her, all rough and fucked out, and too quietly intimate for where they are. Alaska looks at her and Sharon stares, takes in the blue of her eyes and her blown up pupils in a way the lenses mercifully didn’t allow five minutes ago.

“Yeah,” Alaska shrugs, and just barely,  _barely_ smirks. “I was dressed up as you.”

***

They agree that they won’t tell anyone, of course. It’s a quiet agreement amid packed up makeup kits, and it’s done by the time Sharon unlocks the door and swings it open and the music from the venue floods in like a reminder of the rest of the world.

Alaska breaks the promise as dawn breaks behind her at the tour bus’ chosen rest stop. She’s smoking and Courtney is giving her quiet, measuring looks over the edge of a styrofoam coffee cup, and when Alaska can no longer stand it, she exhales smoke into the crisp morning air, and confirms what Courtney must’ve already known.

“I did something really fucked up tonight.”

**Author's Note:**

> i continue to be @ swanboulet on tumblr, come yell at me to finally produce some new work
> 
> also comments on here are fun and rly motivating, tip a queen, yell at a fic writer, ya know encourage us xo


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